TemptedByHisKiss (5 page)

Am I her first?

The question jarred him, triggering some small shred of conscience and bringing him back to his surroundings. He pulled away, dragging in a draught of icy air that hit him like a slap after the moist, delicious warmth of Meg’s mouth. As rapidly as their embrace had begun, it ended, Cade setting her away from him with a quick, firm dismissal. Dropping his hands, he took a step away, surprised to find his cane still clutched inside his grip. As for Meg, she stared at him, her eyes hazy with pleasure, her lips red and swollen. She looked like a woman who had been well and thoroughly kissed—which was precisely what she was.

Hell and damnation, he cursed silently, glad that there had been no inconvenient witnesses there to view their folly.

Meg swayed on her feet, her senses abuzz as if she’d been caught in the middle of a summer lightning storm; ironic, considering she was standing on a shoveled path, in a chill wind, with white fields of snow stretching around her as far as the eye could see. Yet she felt nothing of the cold, her body scorched inside by the fire of Lord Cade’s passionate kiss.

Naively, she’d thought she had known what it was to be kissed, having once slipped into the garden at a ball to share a stolen embrace with a young officer. But now she knew what a fraud that kiss had been, what a dull and pale imitation of the real thing.

Mercy, I can scarcely catch my breath, she thought, her lips throbbing from his touch; his dark, delectable flavor lingering like some kind of sinful confection on her tongue. She trembled and wished he would kiss her again despite the impropriety of such a brazen act. But one glance at the frosty reserve in his eyes was enough to dissuade her.

Abruptly, he glanced away. “You must be freezing. I believe we would do well to return to the house.” Rather than offer his arm, he turned and left her to make her own way. He began the return journey at a quick, almost clipped pace, his cane tapping out a soft rhythm against the snow-packed walkway.

She followed in silence, wondering at his mood, and at what she could only surmise to be his anger. Confusion rose inside her, and yet she said nothing. She knew naught what to say.

Rounding a last curve in the path that led to the front steps, he strode even faster, his limping gait momentarily forgotten in his obvious eagerness to once again be indoors.

Suddenly he skidded forward, as his cane struck a dark, nearly invisible patch of ice. Fighting to maintain his balance, his arms flashed out, wheeling in an instinctive attempt to save himself. But it was already too late, his large body flying up before crashing down onto the hard, unforgiving ground.

Meg cried out and hurried forward. “Cade! My lord! Oh, are you all right?”

He groaned, his features tight with noticeable pain. Reaching down, she offered a hand, but he brushed her assistance aside. “I am fine,” he said between clenched teeth. Slowly, he levered himself into a sitting position.

Wanting to help him, but knowing he would refuse her aid, Meg stepped back, holding her tongue as he struggled to regain his feet. When he was standing once more, he smacked a hard hand against a large patch of snow on his coat, then turned toward the house. Leaning heavily on his cane, he advanced inside.

Meg slipped into the foyer after him, watching in concern as he divested himself of his coat, then made his way down the hall to his book room. The door slammed, the sound echoing through the house.

With a sigh, she walked up the stairs to her bedchamber, knowing there would be no further welcome from him that afternoon.

S
eated at the dinner table that evening, Cade drained the whiskey from his tumbler, then set down the glass to pour himself another. Ignoring the look of concerned disapproval on Meg’s face, he raised the crystal decanter he’d had Harvey place near his elbow at the start of the meal and refilled his glass.

From her chair at his right, Meg used her knife and fork to cut a piece of meat. “The venison is delicious, my lord. You really ought to give it a try.”

Most likely she was right, but he just couldn’t bring himself to eat. During the first course, he’d made an effort with the soup, but after three bites gave up, his stomach roiling. Alcohol was all he wanted…something, anything, to deaden the painful, piercing ache in his thigh. His earlier fall had badly aggravated his leg injury and now he was paying the price.

Of all the stupid, careless things to do
. First, he’d kissed Meg Amberley—a monumental mistake in itself—and
then was so preoccupied in the aftermath he’d scarcely paid attention to his surroundings as he made his way back to the house. One second he’d been walking, the next he was on the ground, agony stabbing through him like the thrust of a jagged knife.

Later, in his bedroom, he had soaked in a tub of steaming water. The heat alleviated a few minor muscle aches but did little to staunch the misery that gripped his abused thigh. Letting his batman help him into a robe, he’d nearly taken to his bed. Instead, he forced himself to dress and go downstairs, determined not to act the invalid, especially in front of Meg.

So here he was, drinking his dinner and glaring at her while she did her best to eat and carry on some semblance of a conversation. He should do them both a favor and take himself off, he thought.
God knows I’m not fit company for man nor beast tonight—and certainly not for a lady.

He didn’t blame her for the kiss or the fall—both were his own doing. Nonetheless, today showed him that he needed to put some distance between the two of them. He and Meg—Miss Amberley, he corrected himself—had been spending far too much time together lately and that needed to end. The roads were nearly clear and she would be going on her way soon. As for him, he needed to get back to his life—such as that life might be. Their parting would be for the best, for them both. Draining his glass, he set it down with a hard thump.

Meg startled at the sound, her gaze flying toward his, her fork poised in midair.

“I am sure you have endured more than enough of my sour humor this eve,” he declared in a firm voice. “If you will excuse me, I shall bid you a good-night.”

“But, my lord, you…surely you might stay long enough to eat at least a little of your meal. You have scarcely touched your dinner.”

“Which is as I choose. If I wanted food, I would eat it,” he said in a clipped tone, pushing aside any twinges of guilt at the wounded look that came into her eyes at his rebuff.

“As you wish. I had only thought to help—”

“Well, don’t.” Pitching his napkin onto the table, he pushed to his feet, pain biting like a pair of sharp teeth into his thigh. He forced down a moan, his knuckles white as he gripped the chair arms. Taking up his cane, he limped toward the door, refusing to glance back to see if she was watching, as he knew she must be.

Once in the hall, he made slow progress to the staircase. At the base, he clutched a palm around the smooth mahogany of the newel post and gazed upward, the journey seeming a long way tonight. For a moment he considered going to his book room to spend the night in his reading chair. But he’d tried that once before and knew no true rest would come from the attempt. Although considering the level of his present discomfort, he doubted he would be able to rest even in his own bed.

He could always take a dose of laudanum, he thought, then recoiled at the idea—alcohol his preferred anesthetic. But he’d used liquor long enough to realize it wasn’t going to do the trick tonight. Without the stronger drug, he knew he was in for a long, painful, sleepless night. Still, maybe he could manage without.

But the climb to the top of the stairs left his skin clammy with perspiration, the whiskey he’d imbibed lurching sickeningly in his stomach. Reaching his bed
chamber, he made it just in time to grab a chamber pot and toss up the decanter of alcohol he’d drunk.

Shaking afterward, he let his batman come to his aid, helping him to strip off his clothes and bathe. He washed the sweat from his face and body, then used a toothbrush to scrub the foul taste from his mouth before settling naked into his bed.

The ache in his leg continued unabated.

A hour later he rose to find the laudanum, taking a full dose before limping back to ease between the softness of his sheets. With a sigh, he went to sleep.

Cade tossed against the pillows, caught like prey in an invisible web as the nightmare came upon him…

A fist struck him, pain exploding inside his skull, but he scarcely felt the blow; one of dozens he’d endured over the past several hours. Or was it days? He honestly didn’t know anymore, the endless rounds of punches having long ago merged into a constant haze of agony.

He sagged against the ropes that bound him to a hard wooden chair, his arms behind his back, his legs half numb after being confined in one position for so long. At least the numbness helped dull the pain from the bullet wound in his right thigh.

He’d been shot earlier trying to escape, but the French soldiers had captured him again and dragged him here to this barn—the Portuguese farmer who owned the land having already been dispatched with callous efficiency. Not wanting him to bleed to death—at least not until they had the information they wanted—his captors had called in a surgeon to dig the lead ball out of his leg.

He’d passed out during the ordeal, only to be shocked
awake by a bucketful of cold water in the face, finding his leg bandaged and his big frame bound to the chair. The metallic scent of blood hung inside his nostrils, his eyes so swollen he could barely see, the split skin on his cheek oozing a slow line of blood.

“Give us the names of your contacts!” demanded one of his interrogators in French. “Tell us how many others are working with you and if Wellesley plans to go north or south!”

He cracked open one eye, then licked a few drops of blood off his bruised lips. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying. I told you.
Je ne parle pas français
.”

The answer earned him a fresh blow, since his captors knew very well that he spoke French as well as Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian. His head snapped back, pain reverberating between his temples.

There was a hushed conversation, and then one of the men moved to stand at his back.

“Who are your contacts? Who is working with you? Where does Wellesley march next? Tell us,
anglais
! Tell us now or suffer the consequences!”

“Suffering is right,” he muttered. “There’s a dreadful stench in here. Do the stalls need cleaning, or is it you I smell?”

He waited for the fist, but the blow didn’t land.

His interrogator spat out a vivid Gallic curse. “I’ve had enough of this. Proceed.”

A second later the man behind him moved, arms flashing next to Cade’s head as he wrapped something around his neck, then gave a quick, hard yank. Cade jerked, his whole body growing taut as his air was abruptly cut off, his lungs straining for breath. Pain seared the skin around his neck, the garrote biting deep
into his flesh. Kicking and twisting, he fought to be free, fought for the use of his arms and hands as black spots danced in his head. Helpless, he waited for death.

In the next instant, the garrote was gone, air rushing into his aching lungs. He gagged and coughed, his body convulsed in agony as warm, wet droplets splashed onto his pantaloon legs, spreading over the cloth in round scarlet dots. Even with his impaired vision, he knew they were blood—his blood.
Good Christ, had the bastard used a wire?

A fist hit him while he was still forming his next thought, while he was still gasping for breath. “Now you will talk!”

“Oh, but he won’t,” declared a smooth voice as someone new entered the barn.

Straw crackled beneath even footfalls, Cade sensing rather than seeing the man who had spoken.

“You’re only wasting your time,” the man continued in mellifluent French. “He won’t talk like this and you’ll only end up killing him. What good will that do?”

“Monsieur Le Renard,” breathed the chief interrogator in respectful tones. “We did not know to expect you tonight.”

“It is good I came, seeing how badly you are botching this matter.”

“We are making progress. He will break soon.”

“Doubtful. Men like Byron don’t break easily. They require other means of persuasion.” Stepping close, the stranger bent down so that his lips were next to Cade’s ears. “Do you not, Byron?” he mocked in perfect, unaccented English. So perfect, in fact, the voice could have been one he might hear in a Society drawing room in London. And how did this “Le Renard” know his
name? His real name, and not the alias he had been using while spying for Wellesley here in Portugal?

A shiver ran down his spine.

“Bring in my little surprise,” Le Renard said, switching back to French.

A shuffling sound filled the space, followed by hysterical sobbing. The crack of a slap reverberated on the air and a woman’s cry of pain just after.

Hard fingers grabbed hold of Cade’s hair and jerked up his head. “Look who I’ve brought to see you. Your little friend from the village. Or is she more than a friend? Did I not hear some mention of wedding bells?”

No!
Forcing his eyes to focus, Cade stared across at the girl being held by another pair of soldiers.
Calida!
Her face was bruised, her straight dark hair hanging in tangles around her shoulders, the bodice of her gown torn, with one sleeve all but ripped away. Their gazes met, her beautiful brown eyes swimming with tears that streamed over her cheeks.

“Let her go!” Cade shouted—or tried to shout, his abused voice coming out as nothing more than a raw whisper.

“Oh, I think not. Go on, my dear,” Le Renard coaxed, in Portuguese this time. “Remember what we discussed?”

“Madre de Dios,”
she cried. “What have they done to you? Cade, they killed Mama and Papa! They came to the house and took us all! He s-said if you t-tell them…what they want to k-know…th-they’ll stop. Please make them stop.”

“Yes, Lord Cade,” Le Renard said, in flowing, aristocratic English. “Tell us, and, of course, I will let you go.”

But Cade knew he was lying. Once he gave up his secrets, he was as good as dead. And Calida, too. There had to be a way to save her, though, something he could do.

“All right. I…I might have a name,” Cade panted, working his mind around a likely fabrication. “Let her go and I’ll give it to you.”

“I think not. The name first.”

Cade hesitated, but could see no means of delaying. “Rodriguez. Pablo Rodriguez.”

A silence followed. “Tsk tsk. I’m disappointed in you. As you well know, that name was compromised months ago.” Le Renard sighed. “I can see this is going to take a while. In the meantime, my men could do with some sport. Boys, who wants to be first?”

Cade strained against his bonds. “Don’t! No!”

Calida screamed as one of the men fell upon her, dragging her to the earthen floor and shoving her skirts high.

Le Renard’s hand tightened in Cade’s hair, jerking up his head again, his fingers coming down to pry Cade’s swollen eyelids wide. “Watch closely. I don’t want you to miss any of the fun.”

“No! Calida, no!” Cade screamed.